Blood on the Daffodils
by ThePaperBagPrincess
Summary: He is dead, killed, murdered, all words she tries not to think, but what she doesn't know is why. And the more questions she asks, the deeper she gets into a mire of secrecy and lies where nothing is as it seems, not even the man she loved and lost.
1. Chapter 1

**The idea for this came from my winning entry for Pearl and Ella-Beth's 'Gimme your Ideas' competition on the Next Gen Fanatics forum. Thanks to them for bringing me to this idea, therefore, and credit to Pearl for the prompts, champagne, waltz and dusklight, and also for the pairing, which will be revealed later. **

**Warning: This is a murder mystery story, therefore there will inevitably be character death, and also some cross-gen romance, so if that's not your thing, back away now. Just now it's rated T, but it's just possible the rating may go up at some point. I'll warn you if it does. **

* * *

**Prologue**

_"and I wonder  
when I sing along with you  
if everything could ever feel this real forever  
if anything could ever be this good again."_

"It's beautiful," his murmur comes from behind her, his hands sliding warm round her waist. She leans back against him, her slim fingers caressing the fine hairs on his arm, a contented laugh escaping her.

"Not beautiful..."

"Yes," he affirms, "Beautiful, like you."

She pulls a face, taps his arm with a fingernail.

"Too mushy. And I don't have uneven floors or low ceilings or a damp problem in the corner..."

"No," he agrees, and she can feel his grin even though he's behind her, "but I didn't notice those things... It's old-fashioned and quirky and homely..."

"Just like me. Thank you," she finishes wryly, but they are both laughing, and her eyes are glowing, because he appreciates her little slate cottage the same way she does, and that's what makes him special. Just like her, he doesn't mind the quirks and faults, he doesn't mind that it's tiny and draughty and miles from anywhere – he sees the dusky rambling roses in the garden and the pansies and thyme she's planted in the border, and the beauty of a blazing fire in the huge old stone fireplace, and the colourful rugs she's put on the floor, the bold paintings on the walls, the wooden cats on the mantel piece, the real cats curled on patchwork cushions, the sunshine-yellow curtains...

"My family think I'm mad to have moved out here," she tells him, remembering her father's exasperation and her mother's confusion.

"_Why Wales, Lucy? You'll be miles from any of us..." "You'll be so lonely, Lucy, what are you going to do all day?" "How are you going to live, Lucy? Those stories of yours don't make any money..." "The place is a mess, Lucy – it's not fit to live in, look at the damp, and how about the size of it?" _

"Well, maybe you are mad," he laughs again, "Maybe we both are. But hey, if this is madness, I think I like it..."

She turns back towards him, pressing her body against him, the smooth, hard surface of the slate under her bare feet, breathing in his warm, male scent, trying to feel everything at once because she's never been this happy and she wants to fix the moment, whole and complete, in her memory senses forever.

"Champagne?" she asks, offering him the bottle she has in her hand and picking a glass up from the windowsill. It is a tumbler, not a champagne glass, but it doesn't seem to matter.

"Absolutely," he agrees, watching her open the bottle with a sparkle in his eyes. As house warming parties go, it's not a very large affair, but Lucy's not a big party kind of person, and neither's he, which is one of the reasons why they work. She pours out two glasses and holds hers up in a silent toast before taking a drink, feeling it fizz in the back of her throat. She opened the bottle by hand, but she uses her wand to turn the elderly wireless in the corner on. It is already set to her favourite station, one which plays old music, both Wizarding and Muggle, and the strains of one of Schubert's waltzes seep into the quiet air.

"Nice," he comments, "What is it?"

"Schubert," she replies with a smile, "A nineteenth century Muggle composer. It's a waltz. For dancing," she puts her glass down and spreads her arms, one hand reaching towards him and a mischievous and inviting smile on her face, "Shall we, Sir?"

He looks at her and, mushy or not, he has never seen anything so beautiful. Her red hair is spread out in curls around her head, her eyes are alight, her feet are bare and in the vintage lace skirt that just covers her knees, he thinks she looks as if she's just stepped out of one of the Titian paintings he saw in the Muggle gallery she took him to.

So he allows her to pull him out of the back door into the dusklit garden, to place his hands in the right places, and to teach him how to step in time to the music. And when the last bars of the waltz fade, they are in just the right position for him to pull her close and kiss her.

"Most people," she murmurs, as she pulls back from his lips slightly, "Most people wouldn't want to waltz in the garden at night at the beginning of April, with their mad girlfriend who doesn't even wear shoes to go outside..."

He laughs, lifting a hand to tangle in her hair.

"You're my firefly though," he tells her teasingly, his voice very soft, "My firefly, dancing in the dusk with your red hair..." he bends his head to capture her lips again, his voice dropping even further, "And I'd dance with you wherever and however you wanted, firefly..."

This time, she does not tell him off for being mushy.

* * *

The sun is streaming in through windows that are still dusty, because she still has work to do on the house, and cleaning the windows will be the last job on her list. She comes in from the garden with a few daffodils in her hands, their yellow almost the same colour as her curtains. He is standing at the table, still shirtless, glancing over the morning post that has just arrived by owl, and the smell of coffee is in the air. She finds a clean jam jar in a cupboard and fills it with water for the daffodils, then crosses over to him.

"Coffee smells good," she tells him, running a hand appreciatively over his well-muscled back. Instantly, she feels the tension in him, and moves round the table so that she can see his face.

"Are you okay?"

He is looking down at a letter, a puzzled frown on his face. It is unopened.

"Work stuff?" she questions, because whenever he is tense, it is usually 'work stuff.' She wishes she knew more about his work; it makes her uneasy that he doesn't tell her. He says he can't; that it is sensitive and confidential stuff, but that it is something for the Ministry. He will not tell her which department though – he says that he works with more than one department, and he sometimes goes to St Mungo's, which makes her think he is something to do with the Board of Health and that perhaps he is protecting client confidentiality by not telling her what it is he does. But then there was the time she took him for Sunday Dinner at the Burrow, and her Uncles Harry and Ron greeted him as if they knew him... It is a mystery, but then there is nothing else mysterious about him, so she supposes he is allowed the odd secret, especially if it something he is not allowed to tell her.

"I... don't know..." he says slowly, turning the envelope over. He makes no effort to hide it, so she looks round his arm. It is sealed with an ornate coat of arms, and she frowns, thinking that she has seen that coat of arms before.

"What is it?" she asks.

"It's the Malfoy family crest," he says absently, still staring down at it, and apparently oblivious to her look of shock. Of course, she should have known that, because she _has _seen it before, although she's not entirely sure where or when. The Malfoys used to be one of the great pureblood families, she knows that, before the war brought them down. They mostly disappeared after the war, although their name lived on in history and numerous journalists tried to pull them out of obscurity. They managed to stay out of the public eye though, and very little is known, even now, about what they have been doing in the intervening years. Scorpius Malfoy was a few years behind Lucy at Hogwarts, the same year as Albus and Rose, a quietly dignified Slytherin who kept to himself, or to his own house at any rate. Lucy never so much as spoke to him, or considered him in any way. The name of Malfoy is not a popular name in her family.

"Do you know them?" she asks, after a short pause.

"Know them?" he echoes her, "No... not personally..."

"Then why...?" she begins, mystified, her voice trailing off. He shrugs.

"I don't know. Only one way to find out."

He slips a finger inside the envelope and breaks the seal. She turns away to finish putting the daffodils in water, although there is something about the situation – and his demeanour – that is making her uneasy.

"_Fuck!_" His sudden violent curse makes her jump so much that the jar slips out of her grasp; she tries to catch it just as it hits the table and shatters, water and broken glass going everywhere, a shard slicing into her finger so that she echoes his exclamation. They swing to face each other, her cut finger going to her mouth but her eyes on his face. He is distracted from the letter.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. What's the matter?"

"Nothing," he smiles, but it is forced, "Just something I wasn't expected. Work stuff. But you've hurt yourself... Let's see that... look, you're bleeding!"

She allows him to look at her finger, judge that it is just a shallow cut, and help her to clean up, find another jar and put the daffodils in it. She doesn't ask again – she never asks about his work – but her mind is full of questions. What on earth was in that letter to make him react like that? Why won't he tell her what it is? And what on earth would the Malfoys have to do with any of it?

He has to go straight after breakfast - _"work stuff"_ - and she is left staring at a jam jar of daffodils sitting in the sunshine, with none of her questions answered, and her feeling of unease only strengthened.

She realises that she has got blood on one of the daffodils, and for some stupid reason, even though she can easily clean it off with a quick spell, it makes her want to cry.

* * *

How to describe grief? What words can be adequate for agony? There are none, so there is no point in trying.

There are a large number of people. The sudden death of someone so young, in the prime of their life, is a tragedy that strikes people's hearts, not quite as much as the death of a child, but nearly so. Some, she knows – his mother, his sister, his grandfather, his friends, many of whom are mutual friends – and some she has never seen before, which she finds strange and slightly frightening, because there are so many of them. So many people who knew him well enough to come to his funeral, and yet she does not know them at all, does not even know their names.

Her family are there too, the ones who knew him – her parents have come, even though they never quite approved of him. Molly is not there, because she has a three-week-old baby – new life in the face of death, and Lucy is quite glad Molly decided not to bring her son, because she isn't sure she can cope with that. Uncle Harry and Uncle Ron are here too, which is strange because they only met him once as Lucy's boyfriend, but she recognises several other people from the Auror Department there too. A week ago, Lucy might have wondered what to make of this; might have wanted to know the answer to the mystery.

Now, she hardly cares. It does not matter.

He is dead. Killed. Murdered. All words she tries not to think. Whatever you call it, however you say it, he is gone. One day he was there, and then the next he was not; a sudden, swift snuffing out of life, love and laughter.

An elderly wizard stands at the front of the crowd and talks about a brave, loving young man, a tragic end, a much missed friend, brother, son, boyfriend. It is meaningless. From the corner of her eye, she can see his sister, her head on her mother's shoulder, her body racked with sobs. His grandfather is crying too. Before the service, Lucy heard him say to a man she doesn't know, "_Your grandchildren should never go before _you." All around her, people are weeping. Lucy cannot cry. Her body seems to be a desert – dry, empty, lifeless – and at the centre of it, her heart is burning; burning to ashes and nothingness.

When it is over, and everyone gets up to leave, Lucy does not move. Her father pauses, as if he is going to speak to her, but her mother grasps his elbow and steers him on, and Lucy is grateful. She does not want to speak to anyone. His family have been kind; have opened their arms to her, and she appreciates that, but just now, her mind is on him and him alone, and she wants nobody else. He is not here though, and Lucy knows that she will never waltz in the dusklight again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter One**

They say that life goes on, and the truth is that, unbelievable though it may seem, and whether you really want it to or not, it generally does.

A year. Lucy could not believe that it was a year since she'd heard his voice, a year since she'd seen his face, held him close, danced with him in the garden. And yet there they were, the dates etched in stone in front of her eyes.

_"Daniel Winterson _

_8th July 2000 - 20th April 2026 _

_Much beloved, gone too soon, sorely missed."_

In some ways, she felt cheated by the words; they meant no more than the words of the wizard who took his funeral. They did not really say anything about _Daniel_. They said nothing at all. And yet, at the same time, they said just about everything there was to say, so she supposed they were all right after all.

The tears had mostly been spent by now, although they came back in the night sometimes. The dreams came back every now and again too, the dreams that made her wake sobbing, and usually robbed her of sleep for the rest of the night. Those were the nights that she spent sitting at her worn wooden kitchen table, hands wrapped round a cup of tea (she'd gone off coffee, because hers was never as good as his), staring into the darkness and just thinking. She hadn't told anyone about those nights, because she had a nasty suspicion that people would say it was unhealthy; that she was brooding; that she ought to talk to someone. Lucy didn't think they were unhealthy. Those were the times when her thoughts were clearest, when she felt most at peace. The darkness was her friend, and so were her cats, who sometimes came to join her.

It was in the night that she first began to wonder again. To wonder _why_.

Everyone always wondered that, she knew. Why someone so young? Why someone so wonderful, with his life ahead of him? Why someone with a girlfriend who loved him? Why someone with a mother, a father, a sister, friends? Why him, why me, why us?

That wasn't exactly what Lucy meant though. There were those things too, but the thing was that for most people, there was no real answer to the question _why_. In this case, there was an answer; Lucy just did not know it. Daniel had died for a reason. Somebody had killed him.

_Why?_

Somehow, that was more important than _who_.

One year on. The grass had grown back across the cracks, so that all you could see was a slight rise in the ground. Lucy knelt, heedless of the soaked grass (it was a wetter April than last year) and placed the flowers carefully at his head. Yellow daffodils, for spring. The flower of Wales, the country where Lucy had made her home. Daffodils were everywhere at this time of year, and she always had some in the house. He had liked them. They were her flowers, hers and Daniel's. Gently, she traced his name, etched into the stone, and then stood, her eyes tearless.

She had wanted to spend the rest of her life with Daniel. She had thought she would. They had even talked about children, but they had never got further than talking, so she did not even have that part of him to keep safe. He was gone, snatched away from her, and she would never see him again.

_Why?_

Lucy Apparated home again, picked up quill and parchment, and wrote a letter to her Uncle Harry, asking him to meet her for lunch.

He agreed, of course; he was pleased but surprised, because Lucy rarely ventured out of her Welsh hideaway. They met in the Leaky Cauldron, as good a place as any, and he smiled a welcome to her, his eyes kind behind their glasses, and his unruly black hair with flecks of grey in it, although as thick as ever (her father's had been receding since he was twenty five). They exchanged pleasantries, and enquiries after various parts of the family (Uncle Harry had seen most of them more recently than she had), ordered tea and coffee, and only then did he give her that long thoughtful look of his.

"Now," he said briskly, "What's this all about, other than a nice catch up with your uncle, which you could have had just as well if you'd come to the Burrow last weekend with everyone else...?"

Lucy looked at the table.

"I couldn't... I was busy... I had deadlines..." she excused herself feebly. She had written approximately twenty words over the course of last weekend, and other than that she had been busy in her garden and feeding her cats, and that was all.

"Oh well, of course, everyone understood," he said easily, even though she had excused herself from almost every family gathering in the last year, "But still..." There was a faint question in his voice, and Lucy took a deep breath.

"Uncle Harry... you knew Daniel." It was not a question, and she looked steadily at him, waiting for a response. He did not seem surprised.

"Yes, I did," he agreed, "He was a good man, Lucy, and I'm..."

"How?" she interrupted, not needing to hear his words of condolence. A guarded expression came over his face.

"Lucy," he said very gently, "If he never told you anything, then I can't either. You have to realise that..."

Lucy was dismayed to find tears pricking the back of her eyelids. She'd thought the tears were finished.

"He was my boyfriend," she struggled out, "I _loved_ him, Harry. Don't I have a right to know how and why he died, and who might have killed him? Nobody's told me _anything_..."

She sounded like a petulant child, she knew it, but he didn't seem to be getting impatient. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair, looking worried.

"Yes, you do. Or you ought to," he agreed bluntly, "But the thing is, Lucy, I _can't_ tell you any of those things, because I don't know them. Apart from the 'how' bit."

"But he was working for you!" she blurted out, "He was, wasn't he?"

"He..." Harry hesitated, "He did some work with us, it's true. I wouldn't say he was working _for_ us. I worked closely with him on one or two things. Lucy, did Daniel ever tell you what it was he did? Who he actually worked for?"

She shook her head mutely, and he hesitated again.

"It can't hurt to say that much," he muttered, speaking almost to himself, before looking in her eye and speaking in his normal tone again, although he kept his voice quiet, "He worked for the Department of Mysteries, Luce. Daniel was an Unspeakable..."

It shouldn't have shocked her. She had known he did something secret. But she had thought it was secret in the way that a lot of Uncle Harry's work was secret. The Department of Mysteries? She had only come across an Unspeakable once before, when she had been a child, visiting her father's office. She had been frightened by his grim, silent, unsmiling persona. The idea that Daniel, her Daniel, could have been one of them too... it was almost ridiculous. Almost.

Daniel had been light-hearted, fun-loving, kindly, often laughing. It was impossible. But then it was impossible that he should have died too.

Nothing was impossible. Nothing should shock her.

"I can't tell you what he was working on with us," Uncle Harry went on, "You know enough to know that. But I can tell you... I don't think it had anything to do with why he died. The Department of Mysteries works on a lot of things, and they don't tell me about them. I don't know anything that would explain why he was killed. Believe me, I've asked myself..." he trailed off, his voice weary.

"But you're looking for who killed him. You are, aren't you?" she persisted, a note of desperation in her voice. Did _nobody_ know _anything?_

He passed a tired hand across his eyes.

"No," he said quietly, "_We're_ not. Daniel wasn't killed by dark magic, so there's been no reason to call in the Auror Department. The Department for Magical Law Enforcement conducted the investigation..."

She noticed his past tense. They were no longer conducting it. They had given up, she thought bitterly. Given up on Daniel.

"Aunt Hermione..." she suggested, but he shook his head.

"Use your sense, Lucy. Hermione's Head Advisor on Magical Law to the Minister. She _writes_ laws; she has nothing to do with catching murderers, only with seeing that they're suitably punished for it when they're caught."

Lucy caught at a straw.

"Tell me how, then," she said, her voice not sounding like hers to her ears. She was not sure she really wanted to know, but at least it would be something. Some solid fact. At least she would know something.

He blinked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You said you knew how he died, and it wasn't by dark magic. So how was it? Tell me," she said determinedly.

His worry increased.

"Lucy, I don't think that's going to help..."

"I'm not a child," she interrupted him, "I want to know, Uncle Harry. I _need _to know. Please," she finished quietly.

Harry sighed deeply.

"His throat was cut," he said eventually, his voice heavy, "with a small but very sharp knife, which was not found at the scene. He would have died very quickly. That's all I know, Lucy, I promise you. I'm sorry," he finished, his words helpless, empty, but this time she let him speak them. There was a ringing in her ears, and all she could see was Daniel – Daniel dancing in the dusk, laughing, his arms encircling her; Daniel's face as he opened a letter, standing in a shaft of sunlight, and the quick, bright flash of blood, her blood, from her cut hand; blood, more blood, his life blood, draining from his body, his face white, the life dying from his eyes...

She pushed her chair back abruptly, her eyes blurring.

"Thank you," she murmured, "Thank you. But I... I need to go now..."

He let her go, looking after her, guilt and worry mingling on his face.

Lucy stood outside the Leaky Cauldron for a moment, taking deep breaths to steady herself. After all, it was no worse than any other way of dying. Better than many. And she had wanted to know.

But after all, what had she learnt? His throat had been cut. A small sharp blade. She supposed they could tell that kind of thing from looking at the wound. She shook away the visions of Daniel's blood and forced herself to think clearly. Someone had killed him without magic; did that mean they were looking for a Muggle? Was it nothing more than a mugging? Had Daniel died for the sake of the gold in his wallet? But Uncle Harry had said nothing about anything being stolen. Perhaps he had not known. Daniel's family might know; his things had gone to them afterwards. They had told Lucy she could have whatever she wanted, aside from a couple of family items. She had not wanted much.

But his family knew no more than she did. She had already talked to them. His sister, Philippa, had kept repeating Lucy's own question - "_Why?" - _over and over again, and his mother had said flatly, "_We'll probably never know_." They too were in the dark.

"Lucy Weasley?" An unfamiliar voice spoke by her elbow, and she turned to find herself face to face with a girl, slightly shorter and a number of years younger than her; no more than twenty, Lucy thought. She had short hair, cut in a fashionable pixie cut and dyed a tasteful dark red. Her clothes were smart but designed to blend in; a dark trouser suit, cream shirt, flat shoes, nothing flashy.

"Yes?" she asked mystified. To the best of her knowledge, she had never met this girl before.

"Jade Mason," the girl held her hand out, smiling, and Lucy found herself shaking it, "And I know your name; I know everyone's names, especially people with famous ones. Can I call you Lucy?" her words rattled out, friendly and unstoppable, "I was in the Leaky just now. At the next table, and I saw you with your uncle. Harry Potter," she added, as if Lucy might need reminding which uncle she had just been having a cup of tea with, "Couldn't help overhearing a few bits..." Lucy could not avoid thinking that the girl could probably have helped quite easily; they had not been talking loudly, "Listen," Jade Mason lowered her voice, sounding more serious, "I think I can help you. I write for the Prophet..."

Lucy drew back instinctively. The reporters had called round after Daniel died. Lucy had shut her door and refused to talk to them.

"So actually, it's _me_ who can help _you_," she said coldly, "I'm not giving you a story, and if you publish what you heard in there, I'll make sure you're sued for invasion of privacy; there are laws about that kind of thing..." She was not sure where the strength had come from to make her speak so adamantly, or so harshly. Lucy was not usually harsh; she did not speak angrily. But she was damned if she was going to let some kid publish juicy details about Daniel's murder, just to get her scoop.

The girl held her hands up in a surrender position.

"Hey, hey, I'm not publishing any of that. I'm serious. I think I can help you. I know stuff; it's my job to know stuff. I mean it, I can help you. If you're trying to find things out..."

"You want a scoop," Lucy said flatly.

"Well... yes," the girl admitted, "But it's not just that..."

"No," Lucy replied.

The girl frowned, something almost like annoyance crossing her features, but persistence was her job.

"Well, here," she thrust a small piece of stiff parchment into Lucy's hand, "Take my card. If you change your mind..."

"I won't change my mind."

She walked away from the girl. She was going home. This had been pointless; all it had given her was something new to dream about at night. But something inside her had woken, and wouldn't let her rest. Lucy had always needed to know. Her 'why' questions had almost driven her parents mad when she was a child. Somewhere, there was someone who knew something.

What had Daniel been doing? Where had he been when he was killed? She was an idiot, she should have asked Uncle Harry that, but he would be gone by now, and anyway she didn't want to talk to him any more today. Uncle Harry said that what he'd been doing with the Aurors wouldn't have got him killed, but what else might he have been doing? There was no point asking the Department of Mysteries anything. What else did she have to go on?

The letter he had received... the letter that had dismayed him so much. He had said it was work stuff. Had that had anything to do with it? She had had a strange feeling that day; a feeling of foreboding. And a few days later, he had been dead.

Draco Malfoy had kept to himself since the war. His mother had re-entered society, to some extent at least, but Draco had never seemed to want to be in the public eye at all. His father, it was said, had sunk into depression after Voldemort's death, and had died some years ago. His wife, Astoria, had died last year, cancer of some sort, Lucy thought, although she wasn't certain. Lucy knew no more of their current circumstances than that.

But she knew where they lived.

Lucy got home, kicked her shoes off, watered the geraniums on her windowsill, fed the cats, then sat down at the table to write a letter to Malfoy Manor.


End file.
